


Full Indulgence

by kiyyeisanerd



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Belly Kink, Breakfast Food, Inflation, M/M, Stuffing, Vaguely described magical powers, Wanton indulgence, home-cooked meals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-04-05 17:59:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19045534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiyyeisanerd/pseuds/kiyyeisanerd
Summary: In which Jake is a reclusive witch boy and Dirk is his unassuming, highly agreeable husband. Agreeable enough to let Jake play out all his "domestic fantasies" and "ancient urges," whatever that means. (Eating ridiculous quantities of food is what it means).This is HIGHLY self-indulgent inflation fic! You probably don't want to read it if you're not into stuffing, because literally nothing happens except for: Dirk is fed a lot of sweet treats, and Jake gets a huge hard-on about it.





	Full Indulgence

**Author's Note:**

> Full warning list in the endnotes. If it's not your kink, don't read! Otherwise, please do carry on.

“Jake,” you deadpan. “You know I love it when you cook, but I seriously cannot fucking eat another damn thing.”

Jake hops up on the counter, swinging his legs where they dangle. Normally you would scarcely be able to keep your eyes off the toned curves of his exposed calves, especially with the dim fairy lights illuminating his skin in an amber ambiance like a set of high-quality minecraft shaders, but at the moment….

At the moment you can’t stop staring at the enormous stack of chocolate chip pancakes he just set down in front of you.

When Jake offers to make dinner, two things are pretty much guaranteed: you will eat way too much, and Jake will reward you with amazing sex afterward. He’s always had a major fetish for “providing for you,” so he’s usually raring to go after you indulge his domestic fantasies. You should have seen that one coming the minute you agreed to marry a reclusive witch boy, but hey, in your defense, he wasn’t like this before you lived together.

Honest to god, you think there’s a little bit of classical conditioning to the whole situation, because nowadays you find yourself sporting a semi halfway through most of Jake’s home cooked meals. All part of his plan, you’re sure.

But today your talented, esteemed husband has greatly overestimated the quantities of food you are physically capable of intaking. You’ve already downed two Belgian waffles, a large hot cocoa, and a healthy serving of sliced fruit. You’re fucking done. No more food for Dirk, thank you very much.

Jake frowns at you, spinning the plate of pancakes slowly in an attempt to show them off. “You’re not going to quit on me so early, sweetheart, are you?”

“Early?” you scoff. “I practically ate two entire breakfasts. Those look really good,” you gesture to the pancakes, “but I’m full. You can have them, or we can reheat them tomorrow morning.”

Jake leans forward from his perch to dance his fingers lightly over your stomach—a habit of his you’ve come not to question. You’ve eaten just enough to feel an uncomfortable pressure in your abdomen, and to feel drowsy from the excess melatonin in your system. Carbs will do that to you.

“Surely you could fit a little more in here,” Jake says, patting your stomach.

“Nope,” you shake your head, “not another bite. If you make me eat any more, there is a 99% chance I’ll throw up all your hard work.”

Jake seems to think for a moment, hooking his fingers under your waistband. “I could… fix that, you know,” he says, dragging out his words.

“Uh, fix what?”

“I could make it so you won’t, er, upchuck, is what I mean,” he clarifies, putting on his best hopeful smile.

You’re still not sure what exactly he’s trying to suggest, but it doesn’t surprise you at all that Jake might have gag-nullifying majicks up his sleeve. Messing with physical inhibitions, pushing the human body to its limits, facilitating wanton indulgence; all aims strictly within his wheelhouse.

“Are you talking about a spell or a potion or what?” you ask, “Because if I have to physically drink anything, I’ll explode before it has time to take effect.”

“Not necessary! It’s a very intuitive enchantment for me. I only need to get my hands on you and voila,” he beams, holding his hands up and wiggling his fingers, “you’d be good to go. I promise I can make you feel good, and I promise no harm will come to any of your delicate organs or whatnot.”

You hike an eyebrow up, trying to look sarcastic, but the low light and the ludicrous amounts of sweet food in your belly are throwing off your usual air of sharp criticality. “Is there a particular reason you’re super fucking eager to feed me a seven course meal’s worth of breakfast foods? I try not to psychoanalyze your idiosyncrasies too much, Jake, but I think it’s about time you came clean about a certain kink here.”

Jake bites his lip, and you think his cheeks flush, though it might be too dark to tell. “Alright, okay, I’ve been caught. You’re right! It gets me all sorts of hot and bothered when I see a cute boy with a big ol’ tummy. It’s a rather common fetish for us witches, really. Wanting to fill people up with candies is an ancient impulse, if you understand my allusion. But, er,” he coughs, “not because I want to eat you afterwards! I couldn’t even manage that, see, because we’re both person sized, and I’ve got no shapeshifter-y talents under my belt. It’s just that I think it’s _exceedingly_ attractive when you’re so full you can’t move.”

Your face heats up as he explains. You are rarely given a window into the magical shitfest that is Jake’s mind, but when you do get a glimpse, he astonishes you. The guy is constantly flip-flopping between never saying a word of full truth and slapping you across the face with brutal honesty, and the transition can give you whiplash sometimes. Goddamn, he is hot when he’s telling you about his kinks.

“So you want to put a spell on me so I can… keep eating?”

“Precisely!” he grins, clasping his hands together. “Won’t you let me, please, Dirk?”

“Alright,” you sigh, leaning back awkwardly in the stiff wooden chair you’re seated in. “As long as I won’t die. Hit me with it, witch doctor.”

Jake looks _delighted_ as he cups your cheeks and kisses you soft. Something electric ghosts over your lips and shoots down your throat. Jake pulls away, and you hiccup as the magic settles inside you, almost like a pill.

“You should be good to go now,” he says. Smiling brightly, he lifts a forkful of whipped cream from the top of the pancake stack to your mouth. “Open up, honeybuns.”

You lick the whipped cream off the fork and, to your relief, you don’t feel like you’re going to puke anymore. Your stomach is still tight, albeit somewhat less so, but your throat and chest are mercifully clear of pressure or heartburn. All in all, the stretch of your abdomen is much more bearable like this. Almost kind of pleasant.

You leave one hand cupping the underside of your belly as Jake feeds the pancakes to you, rubbing ever so slightly to ease the noises of protest your gut makes. It takes you much longer to finish the stack than it took to finish your waffles earlier, but you get the whole plate down. Your upper stomach grows and fills out with fleshy bits of pancake, creamy chocolate, and fluffy whipped cream.

As you finish the last bite, you breathe out slowly, careful not to upset your precarious, aching stomach. The anti-vomit spell is holding up nicely, yeah, but you still feel intensely uncomfortable from the way your skin stretches around the added volume. It's painful. Right now the majority of the weight is concentrated around the top half of your abdomen, filling up your stomach before it’s slowly processed down into your intestines.

“Okay,” you groan, “I need a break before you force me to eat something else. Let me digest for a second, please, god.”

Jake looks plum fucking pleased, grinning at you with shiny teeth. His pants are tenting conspicuously. “You’ll let me feed you more, then?”

You gulp, wincing at the shift of your belly as you swallow around air. “Fuck. I did just imply I’d be down for a second round, didn’t I. Third round, technically. Fuck.”

“You stay right there and settle down, dearheart. I’ll whip up another course! You look like you could use something to drink,” he quips, hopping off the counter and getting to work at the back of the kitchen.

You sigh in relief. Thank the unruly powers above you've been granted a fucking _break_. You use both hands to rub light circles around your stomach, pressing in ever so slightly and then releasing just to feel the relief when the pressure lightens up. You dip your finger into your navel and you’re surprised by how much deeper it feels, how the skin around it is taught like a skin-toned beach ball.

Your stomach isn’t bloated enough yet to make your t-shirt constrict around you—it’s a huge ass t-shirt, probably used to be Jake's before you stole it—but you’ve still pushed the fabric up to better rub at your skin. In fiddling with your clothes, you realize that the waistband of your boxers isn’t pushed down as far as the waistband of your sweatpants, so you fold it down under your hips and groan at the relief when it takes pressure off your gut.

Jake returns from the back counter and places in front of you a large mug filled with… something bubbly. Soda, maybe. “A drink for my handsome prince,” he says.

“Hold on,” you start, covering your mouth to hide a small burp as you try to sit up, “I can’t possibly drink all that. It’s carbonated.”

“Sure you can! Here, darling,” he moves closer, planting his warm hands on your belly. You moan when he touches you, the feeling of his broad palms absolutely _exquisite_ against your skin. “Want me to help your digestive process along with some magical intervention?”

“Uh, what?” you ask, squinting at him. “Sure? Whatever you have in mind. You clearly know what you’re doing here.”

“Splendid!” he smiles. “Let’s move things around a little bit. Can’t have my lovely husband suffering an imbalanced stomach, can I?” He runs his hands lightly up to the top of your stomach, right up to where you pushed the hem of your shirt, and then drags his fingers slowly downward.

Oh _fuck_. It’s an unsettling but sickly satisfying sensation; as his hands move down, the contents of your stomach shift with them. Your body lets out a series of unhappy gurgling noises as the pancake in your stomach empties into your lower gut, freeing up more space at the top of your digestive tract. Somehow, your entire abdomen feels tighter now. Especially the bottom half. The lower curve of your belly presses flush against your waistband, straining against your clothes. The pressure is hard to deal with, but it’s not… terrible.

You’re starting to think you kind of like the feel of it. You’ve always been the type of guy to “overdo” things. And... now that you’re focusing on the tightness of your boxers, you think maybe the fact that you’re kind of hard right now is completely justified. Yeah. Why didn’t you figure out you would find this hot sooner?

Jake flits away to work on his next concoction at the back counter, and you figure you should get started on the bubbly drink. It’s cool when you bring it to your lips, a much-needed refreshment after the warm pancakes, but you think it changes temperature in your throat somehow. Funky.

It goes down smooth when you start to chug. Butterscotch flavor, maybe; it’s sickly sweet and thick and heady, almost like syrup if it weren’t for the watery texture and the carbonation. And _fuck_ it is _very_ carbonated. As carbonated as those ICE drinks you always buy at the grocery store, which you love for their super delicious grapefruit flavoring but hate for the way they make your stomach tighten after only half a bottle. Although, after this escapade, you’re not sure you’re going to hate that feeling anymore.

This is not the first time you’ve chugged a drink for Jake’s enjoyment, so you have a method. Now that you think of it, you should have figured out he had a kink for this much earlier, judging by the amount of times he’s hit you with the classic line, “Chug the soda Dirk, I dare you! I bet you can’t do it!”

You can never refuse a dare. Silver lining is: you’ve had a lot of practice by now with imbibing bubbly liquids.

So you count swallows as you drink. Typically, you can get up to eleven before you need a breather. You make it to twelve and then set the glass down, moaning slightly and bringing a hand to rub your stomach. This shit is going to be hard to get down. A light pat, and you’re already letting out a long burp, getting rid of that pesky carbonation.

You feel much better after that, much more equipped to take another ten or so gulps. Which is exactly what you do.

After continuing this process—chug up to ten, burp until you don’t feel like a balloon, repeat—you start to slow down. You can feel as some of the liquid starts to move into the lower parts of your stomach, churning as it mixes with the waffles and fruit and cocoa and pancakes and whipped cream. You chance a glance down at your stomach, and it’s honestly bigger than you’ve ever seen it. Your navel is so deep you can stick half your pinky in, and you have to rub the sides of your belly lightly at all times now to keep from feeling like you’re going to burst. And the rubbing definitely helps, yeah, but only if you keep your fingers light as feathers, sometimes ghosting your nails over your skin. Pressure is not good. You poke a finger into the fullest part of your belly, just above your navel, for shits and giggles, and it makes you let out a short, wet burp. Ouch.

The addition of liquid to your stomach has made you feel a lot heavier. The food inside you is less like a hard mass now—it’s more spread out, with more room to churn around and make embarrassing noises. You wonder if Jake finds them sexy.

Speaking of Jake, he looks to be about done with his confectionary project on the other side of the room. When you catch a glimpse of it, you swear the gurgle of your stomach is in direct protest, like an accusation. _Are you fucking kidding me_ , your intestines seem to say.

It’s some kind of… huge fruit salad. In a clear bowl, because of course he wants to see your progress as you go. Mostly watermelon and cantaloupe, from what you can see, but hell if you know what kind of shit he put in there.

“I hope you don’t expect me to finish that,” you tell him as he sets the bowl in front of you.

“Oh, you will,” he smirks. Your heart thumps hard in your chest, your blood taking a brief break from trying to help your aching digestive organs to pool in your groin. Your dick twitches because you love when Jake orders you around like that, and he _knows_ you do, and the fact that he knows just makes it even hotter.

He begins feeding you assorted fruits one at a time by way of salad fork. It’s a smart choice, giving you fruit after so much heavy, dense, sweet food, because your brain would not have permitted you to eat another stack of pancakes at this point. But you know fruits are going to bloat you up just as bad, if not worse from the water content. Plus, you just got halfway through drinking a bunch of soda, so you guess Jake’s plan here is to… torture your bladder or something.

The half-finished soda becomes a fully-finished soda after Jake gives you intermittent sips between bites of fruit. You don't even notice when you finally drink the whole thing down—it takes a stream of interrupted strawberries to process that he isn't bringing the glass to your lips any longer.

“Jake,” you groan, rubbing your stomach in wide circles. “I feel so fucking huge.”

“You look delectable,” he practically growls. He’s all smiles and rosy cheeks as he feeds you a gooey piece of pineapple, but you know he’s hard as a rock underneath his boho pants.

You’re burping pretty much every other bite now in short, watery bursts, because the carbonation from the soda is somehow still bubbling up inside of you. Your stomach hardens further under your diligently circling hands, leaning heavily out from your spine now in such a way that you have to sit with your gut jutting out and your ass scooted backward just to make room for everything.

You try to slide down a little in your chair, because you’re starting to get sore from sitting still for too long, but you groan as the contents of your belly shift. It’s strange how the lower portion of your stomach is just hard and taught, painfully tight, while the upper portion is gurgley and hollowed out with air, sloshing noticeably when you move. If Jake hadn’t given you that no-throw magic, you would be so sick right now.

“Only a couple bites to go, Dirk!” Jake says, patting your stomach. “You’ve done such a good job, lovey. You’ve been such a good boy.”

You burp into your hand and swallow hard. Then, you quickly return your hand to your belly, rubbing more soothing circles. “This is all for you,” you tell him.

He looks so fucking titillated by the state of discomfort you’re in, and it pleases you to see how much he’s enjoying himself. His eyes roam over your bloated middle, which is certainly big enough now to stretch your t-shirt, and his left hand begins rubbing around your navel as he feeds you the last few bites of fruit.

Four swallows, and you’re done. You sit back, stomach sloshing, and burp from the shift in pressure.

Oof. You feel fucking enormous.

“Oh, honey, oh baby, you’ve been so wonderful,” Jake drools, showering your stomach with attention from both hands now. He’s practically fingering your navel, and it’s a little messed up how much that turns you on, how much it reminds you of the way his fingers work around a different one of your orifices.

“You can definitely jack off and come on my stomach or whatever you want, but please say you don’t want to fuck me, because I literally cannot move,” you groan.

Jake’s pupils blow up with arousal. “That’s… a fantastic idea, yes. Oh, you’re such a smart one.”

You hardly even watch as Jake sits up on the counter and starts jerking himself. In fact, you’re pretty sure you close your eyes, so close to the precipice of dozing off but for the prominent, unmissable, extremely uncomfortable sensation of being stuffed with half your body weight in food. The beautiful noises coming from Jake’s mouth also help to keep you awake, along with the digestive noises coming from your stomach, which you _feel_ so viscerally as they churn through you.

However many minutes or seconds later, hot come drips onto your stomach, runs down the curve and pools in your navel. Gross, but a little sexy, no doubt.

“It would be nice if you sucked my dick, but maybe wait till after I’ve digested a little more.”

“Yes,” Jake breathes, joining your hands to cup your stomach and rub his own cum around like a weirdo. “Digest a little more. Then we’ll have some fun.”

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Inflation, stuffing, overeating, breakfast foods, fruity foods, carbonated beverages, magic make-dirk-eat-more powers, graphic descriptions of stomach feels, graphic descriptions of stomach sounds, stomach rubbing, pain + uncomfyness, burping, mention of vomit but like in the sense that it is strictly avoided, cumshot onto dirks stomach.
> 
> Thanks for reading!! Hope you enjoyed!!! I wrote this for myself (to forget about and read later as a surprise present), but then I remembered how hard it is to find this brand of inflation fic on the AO3 and figured I would share.
> 
> Keep livin the dream, dirk!


End file.
